"Don't get all bitter and twisted," said Hathaway, zipping the case closed.
"I've given you your freedom. I've given you the names of the bastards who were setting you up for a fall. There's no way we're going to be best friends, but I think a little appreciation is called for."
Donovan stared impassively at Hathaway but said nothing.
Hathaway shrugged.
"I guess I'll just have to settle for the money," he said, then turned and walked away towards Warwick Avenue Tube station.
Donovan waited until Hathaway had turned the corner before opening the envelope. He slid out the by-now familiar application to join the Metropolitan Police. Christina Louise Leigh. The photograph was upside down and he slowly turned it over. The girl in the picture had long blonde hair instead of a short brunette bob, but there was no doubt who she was. Donovan stared at the photograph in disbelief.
He stood up, still staring at the photograph. Louise? He'd trusted Louise with his only child. He'd let her into his life, shared his innermost thoughts with her. He'd let her in through his de fences and all the time it had been a lie. She was a cop. A fucking cop. Which meant that everything, every single thing, that she had told him had been a lie.
Bunny, Jamie and Louise. All of them traitors. All of them police officers. All of them working to put him away. And he'd trusted all three of them. How could he have been so stupid? Hathaway had been right: Donovan had prided himself on being able to spot undercover agents, of being able to read people and to see them for what they really were. How had he been so wrong with these three?
He walked back across the bridge and along the towpath. He almost felt as if his mind had separated from his body and he was watching himself walking by the side of the canal. His head was down and in his right hand he held the envelopes that Hathaway had given him.
A narrow boat painted in garish scarlet and green, was moored opposite the Paddington Stop. On its roof was a line of flower boxes filled with pansies of a dozen different hues and several brightly polished brass coal scuttles
Donovan climbed on board the rear of the boat and tapped twice on the wooden door. It was opened by a woman in her late forties holding a clipboard and a stopwatch. She smiled and moved to the side to allow Donovan in.
Alex Knight was sitting in front of a bank of CCTV monitors. He took off a large pair of headphones and grinned at Donovan.
"Did you get it?" asked Donovan.
Knight had half a dozen long-range directional microphones and as many video cameras targeting the area. He had placed two men posing as anglers on the canal side, a man and woman inside the pub, two men in a flat overlooking the canal, and two teams on tower blocks close by. There was also a camera and a directional microphone in a British Telecom van parked on Blomfield Road and two small radio-controlled cameras mounted on streetlights close to the bridge.
"Every word," said Alex.
"Sound and vision. I'll get it edited and boost the sound where necessary. Should have it done by this evening."
"Tomorrow morning should be okay," said Donovan.
"First thing."
Knight nodded at the envelopes in Donovan's hand.
"Bad news, huh?"
"I've had better," admitted Donovan.
"I couldn't help overhearing that being what you were paying for and all but he didn't take all your money, did he?"
"Most of it," said Donovan, 'but don't worry, I've enough put by to settle your account."
"Thought didn't even cross my mind, Den," said Knight with a grin.
Raymond Mackie threw open the door and waddled into the room. A dozen expectant faces looked up from around a polished oak table. The Head of Drugs Operations had called the meeting on the third floor of Custom House in Lower Thames Street at short notice. Very short notice. Heads of department had been given just twenty minutes to assemble and had been told that there were to be no excuses.
Mackie threw a manila file on to the table and lowered himself into the high-backed leather chair at the head of the table.
"No time for niceties, gentlemen," he said.
"And lady," he added, nodding at the one female member of the team.
"The wonder boys at Vauxhall Bridge have finally decided that they want to start sharing intelligence and have dropped a very hot potato into our laps. I got the call just half an hour ago, so I've no presentation materials and no written notes to hand out. Please listen carefully."
He paused for a couple of seconds to make sure that he had their undivided attention.
"A planeload of Afghanistan heroin is currently being airlifted from Turkey, en route to the UK. Eight thousand kilos."
Mackie let the amount sink in before repeating it.
"Eight thousand kilos. London street value, in the region of eight hundred million pounds. Guinness Book of Records time. The plane is a Russian-made Ilyushin 11-y6, not much smaller than a jumbo jet." Mackie looked at his watch.
"According to the wonder boys, it will be landing at an airfield in South-east England in about four hours. We're going to need SAS back-up on this rather than armed police, but I want as many of our senior people there as possible. I want this to be seen as a Customs operation, not a special forces job. Drugs has been and always will be a Customs priority and this is our chance to show what we can do."
A hand went up at the far end of the table.
Mackie smiled.
"If I can read your mind, the answer to your question is Den Donovan. Tango One."
"Is that it?" asked Fullerton, his head on one side. Off in the distance was a faint throbbing sound.
"Maybe," said Donovan.
"Take it easy, Jamie. Relax. It'll be here when it's here."
Bunny and PM stood some distance away, deep in conversation.
"What do you think they're talking about?" asked Fullerton.
"Probably discussing when they should pull out their guns and blow us all away so that they can keep all the gear for themselves," said Donovan.
Fullerton's eyes widened and Donovan slapped him on the back.
"Joke, Jamie. Joke. Jordan and Macfadyen have given everybody a going-over with a metal detector: there's nobody here carrying so much as a pocket knife."
It was just after seven o'clock in the evening and dusk was settling in. The airfield was a former R.A.F base that had been declared surplus to requirements during a round of defence cutbacks in the early 'nineties. Until a more permanent use could be found for the facility, the Government had leased the property to a loose-knit group of European Union charities to use as their UK base. Its single runway was almost two thousand metres long. Along one side of the runway ran a line of metal storage sheds in which several charities and emergency aid groups stored equipment and supplies. Various logos were painted on the sliding doors of the sheds, including the insignia of the charity that was chartering the Russian plane. Beyond the sheds stood four large hangars which used to house R.A.F bombers.
Donovan and Fullerton were standing in front of the charity's shed next to half a dozen rented Transit vans, each with its own driver. Jordan and Macfadyen had supplied the drivers, all men whom they had used before and trusted.
Bunny and PM had brought five of their own men and two large trucks with the name of a laundry company on the sides. The backs of the trucks were already open in anticipation of the plane's arrival.
A Russian came up and nodded at Donovan. He'd introduced himself to Donovan when he'd opened the gates for the vans to drive on to the airfield, but the name seemed to contain four or five syllables and Donovan hadn't been able to remember it.
"Hiya, mate, how's it going?" asked Donovan.
"Plane is coming," said the Russian.
"I switch on lights."
"Great. Thanks."
The Russian walked off to wards the tower building, most of which had been converted to offices.
Donovan turned to Fullerton.
"What is his name?"
Fullerton
shook his head. He didn't know either.
"What about the Turks? Where are they?"
"We'll meet up with them later."
"Not like Turks to be so trusting," said Fullerton.
"Bit of a racist statement, Jamie."
"You know what I mean. Consignment this size, you'd think they'd want to be here."
"It's all in hand, Jamie. Don't worry." Donovan slapped Fullerton on the back.
"Come on, cheer up. You're in the big time, now. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Sure," said Fullerton. He smiled, but there was a worried look in his eyes.
"Of course it is. The big time."
Donovan glanced over at PM and Bunny. The two black men looked back at him impassively. Donovan grinned and gave them an exaggerated thumbs-up. PM's face broke into a smile but Bunny continued to stare at Donovan, stony faced.
The landing lights came on, two bright white stripes down either side of the runway.
Jordan and Macfadyen strolled over. They were wearing heavy jackets with designer labels.
"Are we on?" asked Jordan.
"Looks like it," said Donovan.
Fullerton scanned the skies.
"Which way is east?" he asked.
Donovan pointed off to their right.
"Over there." He narrowed his eyes.
"I think I see it."
"God, my heart's pounding," said Fullerton.
"Like I've run ten k."
One of Donovan's phones buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He'd been sent a text message.
"Adrenalin," said Donovan.
"Nothing like it."
"Yeah, you're right. Better than a coke rush."
"Better than anything, because this rush comes with tens of millions of pounds of readies attached," said Donovan. He grinned.
"That's it. See it?" Donovan looked down at his mobile phone and scrolled through the text message.
"DEN IT'S A TRAP. RUN. LOUISE." He smiled to himself and deleted it.
Fullerton nodded.
"Yeah. Bloody hell, it's happening, it's actually happening."
Donovan put the phone back in his pocket. He shouted over to PM and Bunny and gestured at the sky.
"Here we go," he yelled at them.
"That's us."
Everybody was now staring up at the sky and pointing. The plane was at about five thousand feet, flying below an impenetrable layer of grey cloud. The engine noise was louder now, and the plane seemed to be descending quickly, as if in a hurry to get on the ground. The undercarriage and nose-heel dropped down and the flaps lowered. The plane was coming in straight to land. It had a large T-shaped tail unit with a high-set swept back wing on which were mounted four turbofan engines.
"Can you imagined if it crashed and burned?" said Fullerton.
"The whole of the south of England would be on a heroin buzz for weeks."
Donovan didn't reply. He just watched the approaching plane with a half smile on his lips.
"Come on," Donovan whispered to himself.
"Come to Daddy."
The flaps were lowered and the plane visibly slowed, then the nose came up and the wheels hit the concrete with a squeal and puffs of black smoke and then the plane was rolling by them. Donovan caught a glimpse of a grinning pilot through the windshield as the plane went by, but he couldn't tell if it was Gregov or Peter.
Fullerton began to jump up and down.
"We did it. We fucking we did it!" He punched the air, then turned and hugged Donovan.
"Fucking hell, Den, we did it."
Donovan patted Fullerton on the shoulder.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"We did, didn't we?"
The giant transport plane turned off on to a taxiway and then turned again so that it rolled back towards them. Bunny and PM walked over, their hoods up on their black Puffa jackets.
"Okay, guys?" asked Donovan.
"Will be once I see the stuff," said PM.
"You okay, Bunny?" asked Donovan.
"Don't see you smiling."
"Like the man said, all we see now is a plane."
The plane slowed and then stopped, about a hundred yards away from where they were standing. The engines shut down one by one.
"Right, let's get the vans over there," said Donovan.
The engines of the Transit vans burst into life and Bunny motioned for his drivers to get into the laundry trucks. That was when all hell broke loose.
Three helicopters came in low from the west, swooping over the wire perimeter face and then breaking away from each other to land at different parts of the field. One hovered close to the tower building, and six men clothed in black, holding automatic weapons, jumped out. A second helicopter disgorged more armed men on the far side of the plane and they ran to surround it. The third helicopter landed at the end of the line of storage sheds. Another six armed men piled out and started running towards Donovan and his crew, guns at the ready, their boots pounding against the concrete.
"What the fuck's this?" hissed Fullerton.
Donovan said nothing. He didn't try to run and he didn't show any emotion other than a slight smile as he slowly raised his hands in the air.
An armoured Land-rover crashed through the gate in the perimeter fence and then turned sharply to the left, allowing a dozen faster vehicles to speed by. Half were police cars, blue lights flashing but sirens off, and half were dark saloons filled with big men in black jackets.
Two of the Transit vans roared off, but a burst of automatic fire ripped out the tyres of one, and the other was rammed against the wall of one of the sheds by a police car. Police officers surrounded the van and dragged out the stunned driver. Jordan and Macfadyen made a run for it, but both were rugby-tackled to the ground by police officers.
PM was about to run, but Bunny dropped a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't bother, bro. These are heavy people. Don't give them no excuse to get heavier."
PM nodded grimly, then slowly followed Donovan's example and raised his arms above his head. Bunny did the same.
The armed men in black surrounded Donovan and his men, swinging their weapons from side to side, their faces hidden behind respirators. They wore heavy black body armour over black uniforms.
"Fuck me, it's the SAS," whispered Fullerton.
"Just stay calm, Jamie," said Donovan.
"Hands in the air."
Men in black jackets with "CUSTOMS' written on the back in bright yellow piled out of the saloon cars and walked towards the plane.
SAS troopers were waving at the pilots to open the door at the front of the fuselage. To make sure they got the message, they fired a quick burst of gunfire over the top of the plane.
The door opened and one of the SAS troopers shouted clipped instructions to the pilots.
Hands started patting down Donovan. He looked to his left. It was a burly, unsmiling police sergeant.
"It's okay, I'm not armed," said Donovan.
"None of us is."
"Pity," said one of the SAS troopers, his voice muffled by the respirator.
"Fuck you," said PM.
"You wanna try something without all that hi-tech crap? Huh, probably isn't even a man inside that Robocop suit."
"Easy, PM," said Bunny.
The ramp at the back of the plane began to open.
"Open Sesame," whispered Donovan.
The sergeant finished searching Donovan and moved on to Fullerton. Donovan slowly lowered his hands. No one stopped him.
The end of the ramp scraped against the concrete. The sergeant nodded at two young constables.
"Take him over there, lads," said the sergeant.
"Someone wants a word with him." The two police officers escorted Donovan to the back of the ramp, where an obese man wearing a black Customs jacket a size too small was waiting for him.
"Den Donovan," said the man, barely able to contain his glee.
"You've no idea what a pleasure it is finally to meet
you. Raymond Mackie, Head of Drugs Operations, Customs and Excise."
"Yeah, I know who you are," said Donovan.
"They call you the Doughboy, don't they? Why is that? Can't just be because you're a fat bastard, can it?"
Mackie's eyes hardened.
"Up until today you were designated Tango One, Donovan, but as of this evening you're no longer a target, you're a prisoner. Come on, I can't wait to see what eight thousand kilos of heroin looks like."
Mackie strode up the ramp, breathing heavily, flanked by four young Customs officers wearing similar black nylon jackets. One of the police officers pushed Donovan in the small of the back.
"Okay, okay," said Donovan, glaring at the man. The officer was barely half Donovan's age.
"Be nice, yeah?"
Donovan followed Mackie and the Customs officers up the ramp into the cavernous interior of the plane. Two men in their twenties wearing stained khaki jumpsuits were sitting on two seats fixed to the fuselage. Other than the two men, the plane was empty.
One of the men waved at Mackie.
"We want claim political asylum. Okay?"
Mackie's jaw dropped.
"What?"
The other man punched his colleague on the shoulder.
"He make joke," he said to Mackie.
"My friend has big mouth. Make big joke."
Mackie looked around the vast space, five times the height of a man, his mouth still open in astonishment. The other Customs officers were equally surprised.
"What the hell's going on?" spluttered Mackie.
A door opened at the far end of the cargo area and Gregov stepped out carrying a white plastic carrier bag in one hand. He walked through the hold. Two SAS troopers, their weapons hanging from slings, followed him.
Gregov opened the carrier bag and took out two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes. He held them out to Mackie.
"I was going to declare them," he said.
"Honest I was." He winked at Donovan.
"Hiya, Den. Good to see you again."
Jamie Fullerton took a swig of his beer and plonked it down on the desk next to his computer. He stared at the screen and for the one hundredth time checked to see if he had e-mail. There were no new messages for him. Fullerton had sent a full report to Hathaway on what had happened at the airfield and had expected an immediate reply.
Hathaway must have known about the abortive raid at the airfield and must have realised by now that Fullerton had been there. Fullerton had said in his e-mail that Donovan had only told him about the flight at the last minute and that there hadn't been time to get a message to Hathaway.
Tango One Page 41